Searching For My Shadow
by the anomaly
Summary: Decidedly Cranecentric. The reasons behind the man in the mask with a bladder of fear gas hidden in his sleeve, explored through his interaction with a young boy. Set before Batman Begins. Please read and review!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

This story basically talks about the origins of the Scarecrow, the alter ego of Dr. Jonathan Crane. Therefore, he may seem a little out of character, because the main story is set before he becomes the character that he is in the film. This version of Dr. Crane's backstory may differ from other writers', for it is written merely based on my own interpretation and imagination.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Prologue **

It was the sound of running water that woke him up.

He wondered if the tap had begun leaking badly again, or if his mother was simply forgetful and had left the shower running. His head sank further back into the slight depression in his pillow, and he retreated further into the quiet sanctuary of his bed, trying to ignore the noise and pretend that his sleep was never interrupted. Of all things, 12-year old Jonathan Crane detested interruptions, hiccups, mishaps and indeed, everything out of the ordinary. In short, he detested himself.

It was all in vain. It didn't stop.

He squeezed his eyes shut further, scrunching up his thin drawn face in a sort of grimace before sitting up with a groan. Fumbling for his glasses that he kept by his bed, he half-stumbled, half-trudged toward the source of the noise.

Jonathan let a resigned sigh fall from his lips, as he called tiredly, "Mom?"

The only answer he received was a violent splash and a stifled scream.

His heavy footsteps quickened to a sprint toward the bathroom, as cold sweat trickled involuntarily down his head and the back of his neck. He could feel it gathering at the tips of his hair, messy bunches of wavy dark brown.

He stopped short at the entrance of the bathroom. It seemed that he was suddenly jerked awake, and his vision that was previously foggy with sleep, cleared instantly as he silently took in the scene before him.

The bathtub was overflowing and much of the water had spilt on the floor, creeping quickly across the smooth tiles to meet his feet. His sister Julien was lying beneath the water surface, the sides of the bathtub framing her body, like a coffin gently cradling a child. Her face was blue and her features seemed to be distorted due to the refraction of light. She was inert, and he stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides, regarding her body with a vague scientific interest.

With her hands poised not far away from the water surface, Jonathan's mother was drenched and had a vacant look in her eyes. She turned slowly to face her son.

Jerked out of his trance, he lifted his eyes and stared at her. With a voice quivering slightly with fear and uncertainty, he asked, "Mom?"

She simply continued to stare blankly at him.

Jonathan picked up his courage and stepped forward. He was about to hold her and shake her out of her trance when she practically lifted him up and submerged him into the water.

He was way too shocked to even cry out, much less resist her sudden attempt. As he thrashed about in the water, fighting his mother's grasp, he heard her sobbing and screaming to him, "I'm sorry, Jon, I had...I had to do it! The Voices from Heaven said that if I wanted to protect...protect you and Julien from the Devil, I had to keep...keep you both under water, always. You see, I always...always... try to be good...a good mother. I always wanted...wanted the best..."

Limbs flailing uselessly, Jonathan tried to hold his breath and find a way to rise above the water, but the harder he tried to free himself, the stronger his mother's grip became. He ears were ringing, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. As he swallowed even more mouthfuls of water, he suddenly became aware of the body of his sister close against him, her dark hair moving eerily in and out of his vision, one with the water. He felt his strength leaving him as his mother's grip tightened on his shoulders. As a final attempt to save his own life, he turned over in a swift motion and using his arms, pushed himself out of the water, all the while staring at Julien's blue eyes which were wide open and fixed blankly upon his own.

Scrambling out of the tub, Jonathan slipped and fell on the slippery floor, shoulders heaving with each breath drawn, coughing. Shocked, his mother made a desperate lunge at him, but he tore himself away from her. He swayed a little as he stood up and ran out of the apartment, trying in vain to ignore her cries and the tears that were now streaming down his cheeks.

----------

It was dark. He picked up his pace, running, running, till he could feel the blood pounding in his ears and his chest ached with every beat of his heart. Not knowing where he was heading, Jonathan merely followed the will of his feet and took flight into the night.

After what seemed like eternity, he stumbled into a dark alley. He continued to grope blindly about in the dark, mind overtaken by fear and trauma. A sudden madness seized him, propelling him to move faster against his own will, causing him to trip over his own feet on the uneven ground, arms stretched out in front of him as though embracing the inky darkness before his eyes. Just as he thought he was nearing the end of this nightmare, he tripped over a large rock, which sent him flying for a third of a second, before he fell flat on his face. The thud from his fall resonated throughout the alley as he struggled to get to his feet; too-loud echoes that bounced off the uneven walls in all directions. A hampered sense of sight had distorted the sensitivity his other senses.

A harsh light pierced the darkness and shone directly at his face, hurting his eyes.

"What's this young fry doing here, eh?"

As his eyes slowly accustomed themselves to the light, Jonathan could make out four or five burly figures staring down at him. He smelt the familiar stench of booze and saw a small sachet falling out of one of their pockets; its white powderish contents a stark contrast to the dark surroundings.

"I..."

"Watcha you here on my turf for? Asking for a beatin' huh?" There were other loud mutterings expressing dissent in the background.

"No...I mean...I was..."

Click. The light switched off, engulfing him in darkness once again. Their fists made swift contact with his thin frame, again and again. He felt a dull ache in his body, as each sharp stab of pain was numbed by grief and confusion. Jonathan could taste the blood in his mouth, a faint hint of metal, flowing slowing from the corner of his lip where it had been split. As his swollen eyelids slowly slipped shut, he imagined formless dark shadows towering above him, his tormentors, with heads of Death and arms of steel...

----------

_**Gotham Times**_

(This made it to page 23)

The bodies of a 35-year old woman and her seven-year old daughter were discovered in Apartment 4, 10 Crescent Street by a neighbour. He had ventured into their house after he noticed that there was water flowing out of the entrance of the apartment. The girl's death was caused by drowning, and it is suspected that the mother hanged herself after discovering her daughter's body. The police have classified both cases as unnatural deaths.

_**To be continued...**_


	2. Part I

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part I**

_Great wits are sure to madness near allied,_

_Thin partitions do their bounds divide. – John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel_

He rises before dawn, takes a shower for precisely 17 minutes, and dresses.

He presses his own clothes. They are crisp, immaculate. As he steps out of his tiny apartment, he straightens his tie.

He walks with quick, unhurried steps towards the hospital. He knows he will never fail to arrive there on time. Held stiffly in his hand is an official-looking briefcase.

He appears at his desk three minutes before work starts, just enough time for him to review his agenda for the day. He glances at the papers before him, cool and seemingly unconcerned.

Something at the corner of his desk catches his eye. There are block letters printed on gold background, matt black against shiny metal.

_DR. JONATHAN CRANE_

Yes, he'd arrived at where he had wanted to be for so many years. Being a practicing psychiatrist for just two years, he was considered a rookie only in name. His knowledge of psychiatry far surpassed those who had entered this field years before him, although some still argued that he lacked experience.

He had silently challenged their claim in his mind. _Experience? I have more experience than **any**__of you. _But when that ran through his mind, his face remained impassive. Emotional baggage must be concealed, kept away. Hush.

It was only through hard work and a twisted passion for the power of the mind that kept him going throughout his university days. Once, he had been so absorbed in the world of knowledge, he denied food and drink for 12 hours. He had been...

_Enough of reminiscing_, he scolded himself; he had to proceed with his work. The first on the list today was...

----------

He rang the doorbell. Receiving no answer, he called out, "Mrs. Peacock."

No answer.

He tried calling for her again but received no reply. Just as he was going to phone the house's inhabitants, the door swung open. He peered in and saw a boy running away into the shadows.

He stepped in uninvited. The interior of the house was fairly dark, and it was unkempt as well, with books, clothing, newspapers and other paraphernalia strewn all over the place. His gaze swept across the living room, and located, in a corner, the person that he was looking for.

Walking over to her with deliberate steps, he said in greeting, "Mrs. Peacock. I believe we are supposed to have an appointment at this moment."

A grunt was the reply.

"Since it's our first appointment, I would like you to tell me more about yourself."

She started to sway her bowed head from side to side. Her long blonde hair covered her face.

"Perhaps you can tell me how long you have felt unwell."

Her head jerked up suddenly, and he could see fresh scratches on her face. With an accusatory tone of voice, she retorted, "Who told you I'm sick?"

He was unfazed by this act of self-mutilation. _Your husband, who's paying for your medical bills as well, _he thought, but knew better than to agitate her further. He kept his silence.

"It must be my face, isn't it? They all see my thoughts through my face; I must scratch the thoughts out...Then they will no longer talk about me."

He raised one questioning eyebrow, "They?"

She whispered, "The people on television."

"What do they say?"

She remained silent for about 20 minutes. Neither spoke a word.

He thought it would be useful for him to understand her domestic behaviour before considering hospitalisation. The apartment was messier than he had imagined, now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light. It was difficult to move around the apartment without stepping on something. There was a faint stench of vomit. Dirty dishes lay in the kitchen sink, which was filled with murky water. He wondered if the boy that he had seen earlier on had a decent meal in days.

At the doorway of one of the bedrooms, Dr. Crane discovered the boy sitting at a table in his room, apparently absorbed in the task of completing a pencil sketch of a certain cartoon character. The figure that bloomed from the tip of the pencil seemed melancholic, but was dressed elaborately in a costume that could have glittered if the picture was in colour. He remained at the door, not far from where the boy was sitting.

Dr. Crane decided that the boy might help him to understand the family situation a bit better. Mr. Peacock had expressed no desire in elaborating any further on his wife's condition; he had his own family to care for in another city, and it was only out of pity that he contacted the hospital concerning his ex-wife's illness. They had unofficially separated two years ago.

"You draw beautifully."

"Thank you." The boy replied, without looking up from his work. He was still adding the final touches to the picture.

"What is your name?"

"Raphael." And a moment later, the boy looked up at Dr. Crane and asked, "Why are you here?"

He could not have been more than nine years old, although it was his slight frame that might have made him seem younger than he should be. Dr. Crane saw clear blue eyes that mirrored his own. The boy's fair hair was messy and unkempt, but his face was clean. He looked skinny and undernourished. _Skin and bones,_ that's what they used to call him. Dr. Crane tried to ignore how this boy resembled himself when he was young. Such quiet persistence.

He collected himself in time to reply in an even voice, "I'm here to see your mother."

"Are you going to make her better?" He was once again absorbed in his task, his dexterous hand moving swiftly across the paper.

He didn't answer.

"She's sick." Raphael said, matter-of-factly.

"How long has she been unwell?" It was time to steer the conversation towards serious business.

"Since _he_ left. Everything changed."

_So, the father's the culprit, covering up for his guilt by forcing his wife to seek psychiatric help._ "How old are you?"

"Eleven." The picture was finished, Raphael held it close to his eyes for inspection, squinting.

"What does your mother do at home?"

He held up the picture and showed it to Dr. Crane, saying, "It's Peter Pan."

Dr. Crane was seldom curious. "And why is he so gloomy?"

"He can't find his shadow," was the answer, given as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The boy was obviously not willing to speak about his mother's condition. Dr. Crane tried again, "Where is your father?"

A stubborn silence surrounded them. Was it trauma or a fear of acknowledging the gravity of the situation that made the child behave this way? The doctor's eyes wandered and surveyed Raphael's room. The boy had kept it as neatly as he knew how, it seemed. A fragile oasis of calm in the midst of a sandstorm; the eye of a hurricane.

Dr. Crane noticed a pair of spectacles resting in its casing on the boy's table. It must have met with some unfortunate accident or other, for it was misshapen, the frames badly twisted. One of the lenses was missing. He shifted his gaze and focused on the boy. There were bruises on his arms; why hadn't he noticed them at first glance?

Raphael froze; he had felt the doctor staring at him. He turned away, still clutching his picture with thin fingers. Dr. Crane scanned the table once more, and found the information he was looking for on a small card in the casing.

Suddenly, uneven footsteps were heard in the corridor leading up to the room. Mrs. Peacock appeared in the doorway of the room. She screamed, "What are you doing to my son!"

Dr. Crane was taken aback for a moment. He didn't answer, but stared at her as she gathered up the boy in her embrace, the boy clearly unwilling to be held close to her, but not resisting. Raphael closed his eyes.

She glared at the doctor. "You will not touch my son!"

Dr. Crane looked at his watch. Clearing his throat, he said, "I believe our time is up, Mrs. Peacock. I shall see you again next week, and I will discuss with my colleagues regarding your hospitalisation." He felt that there were higher chances of recovery for her if she did not continue dwelling in this place that held terrible memories of a failed marriage and a mind driven by madness.

Without waiting for an answer, he left quickly. He didn't turn back.

_**To be continued...**_


	3. Part II

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part II**

Dr. Jonathan Crane always returned home via the same route after work daily, for there was no reason for him to vary it. Now, the feeling that every step he took was a mistake disturbed him, for he knew its cause and was suppressing it as best as he could. He disliked changes in his routine, but found that his steady gait had almost slowed to a stop. His feet had betrayed him. Sighing, he turned back.

Memories were best left behind, safely kept out of sight. But today's experience at Mrs. Peacock's apartment had unsettled him and punctured his bag of memories, so that little moments leaked out, poisoning his mind. Standing outside the optical shop, he paused, and ran his fingers through his hair. He hated to remember.

----------

11-year old Jonathan Crane knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped out of the school gates. Usually, he wouldn't even contemplate the idea of going home immediately after school, what with those pesky bullies haunting every alleyway waiting to waylay someone smaller or weaker than themselves, just for their own selfish pleasure. Like Venus fly traps, he thought, or pitcher plants, mouths open wide to entrap any unsuspecting fly. But this was not any typical day. Julien was down with a fever at home, with no one to care for her. His mother had taken to sitting in a corner and chanting the requests of the "Voices from Heaven" (as she called it) in a low murmur, and they were somewhere along the line of "Kill. Suicide. Kill. Suicide." He was certain that he had hidden all the sharp implements and locked all the window grills, but he feared his mother's resolve to die. He didn't dare to gamble with Lady Luck, who had by far never failed to deal him an unfair hand in all matters. It was better to be safe, than sorry.

Nevertheless, he shouldered his backpack and headed for home, knowing beyond doubt that he _was _indeed asking for trouble. Walking straight into the spider's web, that's what he was doing, behaving irrationally, pretending to be oblivious of the obvious consequences. Somehow, he enjoyed it, although he preferred the beatings to the merciless taunts. _Bruises, scraps, cuts, the places where skin could split and tear to expose raw tender flesh. Decorating his body, different shades of red, like water colours, stark against his pale skin that was the canvas. _To allow the lingering pain to wash over him was a comfort that he desired, so that he could forget the hurt that was far deeper inside, the hurt that was fragile and untouched, like a volatile mixture of chemicals ready to ignite at the hint of the slightest spark, or the frightened animal within him that could spring forth, snarling. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, and pointed his toes towards the nearest shortcut home.

He knew the best way to journey through alleys: hunch your shoulders, eyes on the ground, move as fast as you can, run as soon as you hear someone calling your name, don't _ever_ turn back. And then, he crashed head first into an obstacle, one of the older students it must have been, although in the dim light Jonathan thought he had encountered a living lump of flesh.

A push, a shove. That was all it took for him to lose his balance, and fall backwards on the ground. _It isn't my fault, my backpack is too heavy,_ he mused silently to himself.

They crowded around his sprawled form. There must have been six or seven of them, some even younger than he, but all several times larger in size and physically much stronger. He couldn't breathe; the air was too dense. Taking a mental note of each and everyone, he silently vowed to exact his revenge in the secret world of dreams.

"That's all it takes to push little Jonny on the ground..."

"It would take even more effort to _kill an ant_!"

"Maybe he's a girl after all, what do y'all think huh? Maybe we should check..."

Echoes of laughter danced around, hovering above him, giving the air a sour tinge, taunting him to raise his fists in defence. He silenced the urge to resist their hands, which had either taken the form of fists, hard and clenched, or prying fingers that crept along his body. Their sneers complemented their violent treatment of him as a punching bag.

Once they had begun, it was hard for them to lose interest and stop. He couldn't see a thing, what with arms thrashing about him in all directions possible, and even legs joining in the fray. He hoped the contents of his backpack had not been touched. He would not allow them to be sullied by their hands. Blood dripped from his nose, and he wiped it away hastily, smearing it on his sleeve and leaving a faint trace on his upper lip. He licked it in sadistic fashion and tried to assume a kneeling position before standing up, before a kick in the back of his legs sent him flying about two inches above that ground. His palms were grazed in his attempt to break his fall, and his glasses grew wings and took flight from his face, landing in a spot where his myopic vision could not locate.

All of a sudden, he entered another world, a world of vague shadows and too-loud voices that hung lingering in the still air. Again, he betrayed his instincts and started to grope about the floor for his glasses. _There is no reason to panic_, he reprimanded himself, but the unknown, the blurred images at the edges of his vision when he still had his glasses on, now magnified before his eyes, had never failed to terrify him.

"Ooh, let's help little Jonny find his glasses..."

"Wait, we need a camera..."

"Remember to caption this picture as 'A Scarecrow on All-Fours', yeah?"

Laughter erupted around him, as he tried desperately to ignore and prickling sensation at the back of his neck, this nameless panic that crept up his spine and confused his mind.

"Why, isn't that ugly Scarecrow's glasses? Over there." One of them pointed, and Jonathan had blindly followed their directions, scrambling to his feet, rushing to that spot, tripping over his shoelaces. He fell on his knees, and began feeling the ground with his hands, waiting for the familiar metal frame to materialize at the tips of his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the boys with his arm raised, something in his hand, held high aloft in the air.

The boy walked in front of Jonathan, who now struggled to reach for his glasses, but was held back by two other brutes with vice-like grip.

He squinted, as he said as calmly as he could, "Return my glasses to me."

They snickered in response.

With a voice slightly raised, laced with a hint of irritation and desperation, he repeated, "Return my glasses to me, please."

A voice behind him added, "I'd bet a million bucks that he would just repeat that phrase forever..."

The boy in front of Jonathan gripped his chin, fingers pressing hard against his cheeks, causing him to choke in pain.

In a mocking voice, the boy, apparently the leader of the gang, addressed the rest, "Now, now. Let's not get _too_ impatient, boys. We have plenty of time on our hands."

He handed the glasses to another boy standing next to him. With his other hand, the leader pulled Jonathan's head back by his hair, forcing the latter to look into his eyes. "What would you do to get your glasses back?"

"I..."

"You don't really need it right? It's just a piece of scrap..."

His glasses were dropped on the ground...

"...metal..."

...a shoe hovered just above it...

"...and glass."

...and was crushed underfoot.

He bit his lower lip. He knew that he couldn't afford another pair.

The leader picked up Jonathan's glasses, now a twisted piece of metal framing cracked lenses, and dangled it like bait before his face. Jonathan tried to free himself, but gave up and stared defiantly into the leader's eyes, which were grey and cold.

He muttered through clenched teeth. "I said, I want my glasses."

A high mocking voice repeated in imitation, "I said, I want my glasses."

Laughter erupted once more. Bored of the game, the leader drawled, "All right. Since Scarecrow is such a girl, we'd return his glasses if he begs for them," He fixed his gaze to watch Jonathan's reaction, and added, "Convincingly."

They waited. Jonathan swallowed hard.

"Come now, don't waste my time. I could change my mind, you know, and throw it into the gutter."

With blazing eyes and voice quivering with silent rage, Jonathan said in a low voice, "Give me my glasses."

"And what have we learnt about manners?" He yanks the glasses slightly out of reach, sniggering.

Jonathan threw an insolent gaze at the sneering boy before him, but knew better than to antagonise them further. He listened to the practical advice that his mind offered, and counselled his heart to swallow its pride.

He stammered slightly, "Could you...could you _please_ return my glasses?"

"I shan't make life miserable for you, _Scarecrow_; I'm letting you off easy this time." And with that, the leader of the gang spat on the ground, threw the glasses into Jonathan's face and left. The rest of his cronies followed suit, but not before presenting him with a kick to the stomach as a farewell gift, causing him to double over in pain.

He passed a hand across his eyes and stuffed his glasses into his pocket. It would be no use trying to survey the damage done to it under this dim light. Picking up his backpack, he slung it over his shoulder and staggered home. Every inch of his body hurt with every step he took.

----------

At home, Jonathan tried his best to bend the metal frame back into shape. There was nothing to be done about the cracked lenses. He put them on, and saw the world through an elaborate spider web. He could endure that, but could not bare the stares of his fellow schoolmates and their whispered comments.

It would be three months before he could save up enough money to buy a new pair.

----------

Dr. Crane entered the shop, and left 15 minutes later. If one were to observe him, his step would be lighter than usual.

----------

A week after the visit from the strange doctor, Raphael Peacock received an article delivered by mail. He opened it apprehensively; nothing like this had happened before. Nestled in a green coloured box was a brand-new pair of glasses that resembled his own.

_**To be continued...**_


	4. Part III

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part III**

A door stood ajar. Voices floating out of the small gap.

"It's regarding her hospitalisation, sir. I think she may be..."

"Yes, yes, she should be moved to our hospital, put her on Thorazine..."

"And what about the child?"

"Oh, I'll get the welfare officers to deal with that. Meanwhile, the father is supposed to be responsible for him."

"But he's only..."

"I know what I doing, Crane; do not question my authority."

Dr. Crane nodded briefly, and left. He reminded himself never to bother protesting against his senior's indifference.

----------

A week later, Dr. Crane was doing his rounds in the suicide observation ward when he came across Raphael. The boy was standing beside his mother, who was sedated and unresponsive. She lay straight on her back, stared at the ceiling through the slits of her eyes and did not acknowledge her son. Dr. Crane continued walking down the aisle with even steps, pausing briefly at the end of her bed to read the nurses' observation of her daily behaviour.

The report stated that although she no longer spoke about the voices and the broadcasting of her thoughts, she took several minutes to answer simple questions, such as those regarding her meals or general hygiene. He looked up from the clipboard and saw that Raphael was staring at the ceiling. He walked away.

A voice behind him asked, "What's there on the ceiling?"

Dr. Crane stopped, but didn't turn back, "What do you see?"

"Nothing."

A pause. Raphael fixes his eyes on his mother's face. "She hasn't answered my question for half an hour."

"The drugs are keeping her calm."

He lifts his head, and stares at Dr. Crane, angry tears swimming in his eyes, "You've taken my mother away from me."

Dr. Crane kept quiet. _The child's grief is his own to bear; there's nothing you can do about it._ He bowed his head.

Suddenly, the boy ran to him and grabbed his arm, pulling, not letting go. The doctor swiveled around and allowed himself to be lowered to his knees so that he was now facing the boy. The boy was surprisingly strong for his stature, and being held by such a tight grip was an assault on his senses. Dr. Crane did not like to be touched, nor did he like to lay hands on others of his own free will.

But there can always be exceptions.

Raphael had released Dr. Crane's arm. With some effort, the latter raised his hands and placed them firmly on the boy's shoulders. "Be still," he commanded gently.

He did not reply, but was numbly led out of the ward. He kept glancing back as he followed the doctor down the corridor and towards the cafeteria.

Pointing to a chair, Dr. Crane said, "Take a seat."

He obeyed, but put his head down of the table and covered it with his arms. It looked as though his head had been swallowed by green sweater.

Dr. Crane walked to the vending machine and stared at it for a moment, undecided. He slid in a coin and punched a button. A can of grape juice fell out; and he picked it up, the thin aluminium cool against the warmth of his fingers. He returned to the table and sat in front of the boy. Deft fingers pried open the can, and he set it at the edge of the boy's elbow. "Drink," he said.

Raphael stirred, and raised his head. He glared fiercely at the man before him, tears glistening on both cheeks. Dr. Crane, face still expressionless, nodded to the can and said, "Drink."

He shook his head, sullen. "I want her to go home," and added, "She wants to go home too."

"She may hurt herself, and you as well, if she isn't hospitalised."

"I don't care. I don't want to live with my father, in another city. Besides, she's never done anything to me," he argued.

_You never know._ Dr. Crane held the can of juice and offered it to the boy, "Drink."

Raphael reluctantly accepted the can, but gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. When he set the can down again, the part of his face between his upper lip and his nose was stained, a sticky purple-coloured juice moustache.

_I'm leaving it there to ferment, maybe it'll become wine after a while, says Julien._

_Don't be silly, he replies, clean your mouth._

_I won't, she laughs, and smears her sticky fingers on his cheek._

_You're going to be late for school, he says. He tries to be serious, but gives in and smiles back, ruffling her hair with one hand._

He offered a paper napkin to the boy, but he refused it, choosing instead to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Dr. Crane wondered why it did not leave a stain on the dark green material.

"Go home."

Raphael looked into his eyes. He shivered slightly, and said, "I'm afraid."

Dr. Crane dropped his gaze so that he saw only the grey coloured surface of the table. There was a tense silence for several seconds.

The boy continued, searching in his backpack, and fished out a piece of paper. "I just wanted to tell you, he's found it."

It was similar to the first drawing he'd seen, but now the eyes of Peter Pan were filled with fear. The character shrank away from his own shadow cast on the ground. "And now that Wendy has sewn it to his heel, it'll never go away. It's staying for good," he adds, in a self-satisfied manner. "I have something for you to see."

Dr. Crane, who was previously absorbed in the picture, recovered and replied, "Another day, perhaps."

Raphael picked up his bag. Before he left, he said, "Thanks for the drink," leaving the doctor to his thoughts.

In the cafeteria, a lone figure casts one long shadow.

_**To be continued...**_


	5. Part IV

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part IV**

For the next few days, Raphael never failed to turn up at the hospital, standing patiently at his mother's side, never sitting down or opening his mouth to utter a word. He stood by her and stroked her hand, and she responded by closing her fingers around his. No words passed between them. Dr. Crane, observing that Mrs. Peacock no longer revealed that she possessed any suicidal thoughts nor had any apparent suicidal tendencies, had approved for her transfer to a more peaceful regular observation ward. He kept her hospitalised for she was still unable to care for herself.

Every time the doctor made his rounds and met the boy, Raphael would look intently at him, and his eyes would say, _I have something for you to see._ It was a taunting, mocking gaze, and Dr. Crane hated it. He hated being in the dark, not knowing, as always, a child at a table of grown-ups. It was this urge to eliminate his ignorance that brought him to confront the boy one day, as the latter was about to leave the hospital. It was the burning in Raphael's eyes that he recognized, a reflection of his own that had not faded but instead hardened like a thin film of glass.

"You said you have something to show me," Dr. Crane said, his tone of voice doing nothing to betray his interest.

"Yes."

"Well, I am free this afternoon."

"All right. Follow me." Raphael flashed an enigmatic smile, and led the way to the apartment.

----------

They boarded the bus. Along the way, the boy said, "You know, I had to do that; you know, provoke you to come."

Dr. Crane raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was curious as to why he did not feel anger even though he knew he had played into the hands of the child.

"Everyone thinks that I'm a freak. But I've discovered something," he lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced around quickly before saying, "A weapon." He didn't wait for the doctor to reply, and continued, "You're the only one I can show it to."

Dr. Crane was sincerely puzzled, "Why is that?"

"Because your eyes are like mine," Raphael explained simply, "You would understand."

He looked away and replied coldly, "I understand nothing."

The bus suddenly came to a stop without warning; an irresponsible pedestrian had dashed across the road and the driver jammed the brakes in desperate attempt to avoid hitting him. For lack of a handhold, Raphael lost his balance and lurched forward, grabbing the doctor's hand for support. It was as though an electric current had passed from the boy's hands into his and started coursing through his body.

_Hold my hand, he commanded. _

_I'm not a child, Jon, she pouted. I'm six years old!_

_That, unfortunately, means you are still a child. Besides, he smirks playfully, your behaviour already classifies you as one._

_Am not! But she still clasped her hand in his, softness against softness, his long fingers enveloping hers. _

_Now, stop skipping around and watch out for the cars, he says, resuming to the task at hand. He warns jokingly, One day when I'm no longer around to guide you across the road, you'll get knocked down and flattened like a pancake._

_She laughs, but stops short, the happy moment suddenly lost. She tugs at his hand and asks, Why wouldn't you be around? You aren't going to leave like Daddy did right?_

_He forces a careless laugh and replies, No, of course I'll always be here, holding her hand even more tightly to reinforce his point, watching her as she slowly becomes certain that he'll never leave her, ever._

Dr. Crane felt Raphael release his hand, and heard him say, "I'm sorry," but the boy's voice seemed far away, and only brought close to his ears by the wind.

----------

The social workers had done their job. The apartment, although not spotless, was reasonably cleaner. At least there was no longer a stench of vomit and one could walk around without stepping on random items lying on the floor. The boy walked to his room, with Dr. Crane following him behind.

"Here it is," Raphael announces, pointing at two cages by the window, and other apparatus at the side.

The first cage was empty, but had an opening in which a tube was inserted; and this tube carried the gases that came from an adjacent flask into the cage. The flask, tightly sealed, contained a dubious-looking liquid and was placed atop a heating plate. The second cage contained several white mice, and was well ventilated, unlike the first.

Shaking the flask slightly, Raphael switched on the heating plate, encouraging the liquid to vaporise. He points to a tray of dried blue flowers, and the doctor nods, recognising the poppy flowers. The boy continued, "After drying, I grind them into powder and mix it in a solvent, getting the liquid you see here in the flask. When it boils," bubbles started to appear in the liquid, "a gas is given off, which affects a normal mouse" he lifts up a mouse from the second cage and puts it in the first one, "like this."

As the fumes started entering the cage, the mouse was evidently curious, scampering about and trying to catch them with its nose. But upon inhalation, it stopped behaving in a normal fashion. It darted around the cage in all possible directions, knocking into the cage's walls many times, on purpose or by accident. After a while, it scampered to a corner and lay there, twitching and burying its head in the sawdust.

Dr. Crane was aware that the fumes, if inhaled in small quantities by humans, resulted in hallucinations. In more concentrated doses, the victim would be swallowed by fear and a sense of imminent doom, resulting in the onset of panic attacks in weaker individuals. He had, however, never observed a mouse's reaction to such fumes. He was faintly amused.

"As you can see, that mouse is clearly frightened," Raphael says. "And when I add in another mouse..." He picks up another mouse and places it in the first cage. Dr. Crane had a vague inkling that it was previously oblivious to the fate of the mouse in the other cage and currently still ignorant of the fate that would soon befall it.

The second mouse started to react to the fumes in the same way as the first mouse, but upon discovery of its counterpart, it sprang back and bared its teeth. The first mouse responded likewise, and both mice, feeling threatened by each other, ended up in a brawl. It was no play-fighting; they were both trying to tear each other into pieces. In the end, the second mouse stood victorious over the body of the dead mouse beside him. Raphael switched off the heating plate.

By the time the fumes in the first cage had dissipated, the second mouse was sprawled on the sawdust, motionless. It was dead.

Raphael, satisfied by the outcome of his little "experiment", walked away. Dr. Crane turned to face him, and asked, "Is this all that you have to show me?"

"Yes, but..."

"You intend to use the gas on humans," Dr. Crane stated matter-of-factly. "It's impossible. This concentration that works on mice may not have the same effect on humans."

"I know it's difficult, but that's why I need your help..." The boy's voice had taken on a dejected tone, and he stared hard at the dead mouse, shoulders hunched.

Dr. Crane continued, "And how are you going to carry the entire set-up along with you? It only works in a gaseous state. Have you thought about how you're even going to..."

Raphael interrupted, "They tried to touch me!" His voice broke, "I'm sick and tired of being weak, being beaten up, everything!"

Dr. Crane started. He wouldn't allow himself to be emotionally involved in this; he reminded himself that he was only a spectator. "I'm just telling you it isn't going to work. You're going to..."

"And now, you, you're not even going to help me. I thought you would..." He cries, his breath hitching.

The doctor almost flings his hands up in exasperation. Knowing that he would regret this later, he says, in a controlled voice, "I've tried it before,"

The boy looks up, "You, you have?"

He breathes hard, holds back the wave of memories. "Look. How are you going to use it without being affected yourself?" He nods to the cage, "You've seen how fast the gas disperses." He sighs, "Give up the idea, Raphael." He stands up, and leaves.

Raphael was still adamant. "I won't," he whispers to himself, and then he shouts, to the footsteps that were retreating further and further away, "Did you hear that? I WON'T!" He slumps back, cradling his head in his hands.

_**To be continued...**_


	6. Part V

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part V**

His footfalls became increasing faster and faster, accelerating to a quick sprint down the street. For a rare moment, Dr. Crane didn't care what the other people on the street were thinking about his behaviour. He was past caring about such insignificant things, which he had tried so hard to make them seem more significant than the troubles in his heart.

----------

Jonathan Crane was 13 years old. It had been 13 years of darkness, but today was different. Today, he was confident; infinitely sure of what he was going to do. Today, he knew he would be going to taste something he'd never tried before: _revenge_.

There was a bladder of gas hidden in the sleeve of his sweater. It was all he would need, or so he thought.

It was after school. He knew their haunts, where they thought they could waylay him in the dark. Not anymore. He walked calmly behind one of them. In the dark, all is hidden. They were all too busy roughing up another kid. He raised his hand, finger poised over the crucial button, ready to attack.

Suddenly someone grabbed his arm from behind. He pushed the button, releasing the gas in his face. Coughing, choking, a cloud of dust before his eyes...

_Please! I don't want to remember!_

He falls back against the wall with a cry, arms over his head, as if to ward off an unseen attacker. The other youngsters crowded around him, curious. Jonathan had started to sob, gasping...

He sees his life being played in front of him, like a tape rewinding. Flickers of the past, bringing him closer to the present. He hears his ears ringing and he knows he is again in that bathtub, with his mother standing over him, his sister lying close at his side. Julien's eyes, staring blankly at him, coming closer toward him, the distance between them narrowing by degrees. He feels cornered, and tries to escape, but crashes into a torso that morphs into fists. Shadows tower above him, leaving the entire place in darkness, and he experiences the beatings all over again. His face is contorted by pain, he hears the voices in the background chanting, "Scarecrow...scarecrow...scarecrow..."

His body was curled into a foetal position, arms still covering his head, whimpering. Fearing that he was having a fit, the bullies didn't dare to touch him.

One of them was about to approach Jonathan, "So little Jonny really conked off, huh?" The gang leader stopped him, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Hey. Don't. If he's dead or anything, we'll really get into trouble." He didn't dare to step beyond what was accepted as the boundaries of bullying. The teachers didn't bother if a kid was roughed about a bit, but if it was too drastic...

He received a kick in the rear, but was barely aware of it; much less think clearly enough to retaliate. The youngsters left, afraid to be held responsible for anything that happened to the boy. Jonathan was left alone in the shadows, fear overpowering his mind and body...

----------

Dr. Crane stumbled. Mumbling a careless apology to the person he had knocked into, he stopped short, leaning heavily against the wall, his breathing ragged. He passed a hand over his eyes, counted silently to ten and forced his breathing to slow down. In and out, in and out, he hears himself inhaling and exhaling, the rhythms of life that he had wanted to deny long ago. He managed to return home, a false sense of calm camouflaging the waves of emotion that hit the shores again and again and again.

He should never have followed the boy into the apartment. Now, the dreams would return to torment him. _But it's not like you don't have those dreams every other day,_ his inner self argues. He fell onto the sofa, the weariness creeping through his blood, working its way deep into his bones. His eyelids started to droop, succumbing to sleep before he could even stage any protest.

_You're always so careless, Julianne Crane, he scolds. _

_She winces as he washes the abrasion with antiseptic solution and retorts, indignantly, Don't call me that!_

_Maybe if I start calling you that, you'll finally start behaving like a girl. Not running around with the boys and getting hurt so often..._

_She stares at him kneeling before her, shaking his head as he cleans the wound. It's as if someone had reached up to her and squeezed her heart. She rests her cheek against his head, lips brushing against his hair._

_He stiffens at the touch, but reassures himself that it is only his sister. Nevertheless, it is he who breaks the contact by moving away. There, he says, you're all set._

_She puts her arms around him, holding him tight, as though any time the wind would whisk him away from her. He contemplates, and returns the embrace. _

But now, even in his dreams, he knows that this is impossible. It is merely the voice of a ghost he hears and the arms of a ghost he feels around his neck.

----------

Raphael became even more determined after he pondered over what the doctor had said. _It's impossible. This concentration that works on mice may not have the same effect on humans. _He was ready to make the impossible possible.

He decided to increase the usual concentration by ten times, smiling to himself as he ground the flowers into dust. He had done this so many times before that he could even repeat the procedure blindfolded. Pouring the solvent and the powder into the flask, he swirled it around slowly and set it on the heating plate. He switched it on and waited.

The flask exploded.

_**To be continued...**_


	7. Part VI

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Part VI**

Raphael had not visited his mother for consecutively two days. Dr. Crane did not suspect anything at first, until a social worker appeared in his office one morning to inquire about the boy. He had not turned up for school either. As he was Mrs. Peacock's psychiatrist, Dr. Crane agreed to accompany the social worker to check on her son at his home later that afternoon.

----------

He had arrived early. He rang the doorbell, but only received silence as an answer. Dr. Crane pretended to dismiss this lightly, and stood at the door waiting for the arrival of the social worker. The latter arrived a few minutes later, and unlocked the door to the apartment.

An unnerving silence filled the apartment; their footsteps shattering it as they headed toward the boy's room. Dr. Crane knew beyond doubt that something had happened. He had identified Death walking through this apartment before them. He could recognise its touch, its smell, the way it clung on to everything it breathed on. As their eyes fell upon the boy's motionless body lying face down on his bedroom floor, he was aware this was merely a confirmation of his suspicions.

Broken shards of glass covered the floor, remnants of a broken flask, curiously shaped like crystal dewdrops. It was easier to stare at the light refracting within the glass, because focusing on something definite and material was less complicated than confronting the first pangs of guilt and grief.

His eyes caught sight of the cages. The mice were no longer alive; Death had caught them in mid-motion, snuffing their lives out as easily as extinguishing small flickering candle flames. He allowed himself to look at the books, the curtains, the tables, and the experimental set-up, paying attention to everything except Raphael's thin body.

The social worker knelt beside the boy, checking for a pulse just for propriety's sake, for the boy had obviously been dead for two days. She turned the body over, and gave a cry.

Raphael's face was contorted. It was as though he had been tortured to death, but his body bore no trace of physical injuries. Dr. Crane knew that he had died after inhaling a fatal concentration of the fear gas.

_The mind can only take so much._

In his mind, he saw Raphael falling to the ground, choking and gasping, the gas dispersing throughout the room. He wondered what images flashed across the boy's mind before he breathed his last. With the excuse that he had to return to his work at the hospital, Dr. Crane left the scene hastily, leaving the social worker to conduct the coda of Death's masterpiece.

----------

Back at his office, Dr. Crane was left alone to his thoughts.

_It's your fault, you know, says Julien._

Shut up, he hissed, ignoring the guilt gnawing at his heart. I knew nothing.

_Yes you did. You knew he would try something as dangerous as that, she persists._

Could you leave me alone? He begged desperately.

_No, I won't. I have to let you know what I think. I..._

He grabbed the glass paperweight that lay on his desk and flung it at the wall in an empty corner of his office. It shattered.

----------

They say that time heals all wounds. But there are some hurts that time cannot mend, and only self-deception and a perverted interest in something else that calls for a mind's full attention can cover the pain. Dr. Crane had to find a way, some sort of protection for himself, if he were to use the fear gas. A thin voice captured the first idea and brought it to him.

_Scarecrow._

A burlap sack would be the perfect starting material...

_**To be continued...**_


	8. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review! **

**Searching For My Shadow – Epilogue**

Dr. Crane stands at the foot of Raphael's grave. It has been a full year since the boy had died. When he looks at the tombstone and the grave angel carved out of pale stone that watches over decaying flesh and bone, he remembers.

A hand, moving swift across the paper, a flawless drawing blooming from the tip of the pencil.

A pair of spectacles, only recognisable as a twisted mess of glass and metal.

A grape-juice moustache, adorning the upper lip of an otherwise pale and expressionless face.

A broken boy tinkering with a set of apparatus in his room, trying to fight fear with fear.

Fingering the Scarecrow's mask in his briefcase, he refuses to acknowledge the final image of a boy's face torn apart by fear, consumed by the shadow he was searching for.

A single blue flower adorns the tombstone of Raphael Peacock.

**The End**


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